Forbidden (Short Story)

He was sinful, everything about him—and for the first time that she could remember, her flesh called out, the voice rooted from somewhere deep inside her. And then he looked up, as though sensing her eyes on him, and she saw him halt, as though the nostalgia she could not remember was coursing through his veins too. The scars were familiar to her, most of them, and without even turning him, she knew the extensive burns he would have on his back, right along the line of his waist. She marked him too like she had every time previously, clawing at his back, making him bleed, knowing that his blood, the flesh on his back, would carry this memory, biting at his shoulders.